Tuesday, February 2, 2010

I'm telling you, I really hope this whole exercise regimen thing isn't going to come around and bite me in the behind. Because once I've had a full day of work, dragged my sorry self to the gym, then up the four flights of stairs to get to my apartment, I'm not only dry heaving (alright, slight exaggeration) but ridiculously ravenous.

Last night was no different.

While clocking in time on the treadmill, my thoughts were consumed by two things: "When is Ke$ha's 'TikTok' going to come on so I have a sick beat to run to?" and "What in God's name am I going to eat as soon as I get home?!"

Normal, I know. So on my way back to my apartment, I stopped in the corner produce bodega for an avocado, tomato, and red onion. Tonight, I was going south of the border. And fast.

I quickly defrosted some jumbo shrimp (thank you, Costco) and then threw them into a pan with a smashed clove of garlic and a teaspoon of chipotle in adobo. Two, three minutes later they were perfectly pink and just cooked through. I chopped up half the avocado, the plum tomato, and finely sliced half a red onion and tossed it all with a drizzle of balsamic vinaigrette (although a squeeze of lime juice, a dash of olive oil, and salt and pepper would be just as fab). One side of a whole wheat tortilla was filled with thin slices of a mild white cheddar, and a few shrimp that I halved lengthwise. I then folded the tortilla in half and threw it into the microwave (trust me) for one minute. You could also slip it onto a large pan and cook on both sides until the cheese has completely melted. Transfer it to a plate, top with a generous spoonful of the avocado salad and dive in.

Dinner was thrown together in about 10 minutes. As far as how quickly it was consumed, well, let's just say I'd like to maintain my ladylike street cred. That is, if it even still exists.

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kiira [dot] leess [at] gmail [dot] com

who i am

When faced with the question of what food means to me, conversation inevitably shifts to my Mor-Mor (Swedish for Grandmother): A phenomenal cook who refused help in the kitchen and didn't believe in recipes. The real deal, if you will.

Mor-Mor had a seriously strong hand with garlic (surprisingly for a Swede) and an innate knack for making anything taste implausibly delicious. There was always a jar of homemade garlic oil in her fridge which found its way drizzled on top of almost everything. Like one of her breakfast treats: homemade bread slathered with garlic oil, a few slices of granny smith apple, and topped with extra sharp cheddar. Into her beloved toaster oven they'd go until the cheese had just melted, lovingly, over the apples. The salty-sweet combination could make your head spin—a beautiful cohesion of flavors and textures from such an unexpected pairing.

And then there were her meatballs. With her homemade tomato sauce made from tomatoes grown in her garden, picked when perfectly plump and warm from the summer sun, a ladle of garlic oil, and tons of parsley (Mor-Mor may or may not have been secretly Italian), they sent eyeballs rolling to the backs of people’s heads. The thought alone of her in that kitchen makes my heart long, once again, for her cooking. For her.

Now when I'm cooking, I finally understand her insistence on navigating the kitchen alone. There's something about getting in there and winding down and having your own personal space to create that’s beyond therapeutic—it’s wholly fulfilling and soul-satisfying.